Dino Estevao's Personal War In Angola WARBLOGMy experience of the War in Angola or the border war goes to the very beginning of my childhood. what i am going to share with is a chains of events that were observed or rather lived from a unique position. over the years i have come across stories and anacdals that may have sounded absurds at the time. but today more than ever we are looking for answers, answers that you may find here or that you may have and would like to share with me and other readers. to that i thank you and hope that you find this space informative.http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/BlogId/39/language/en-US/Default.aspx
en-ZAdinoestevao@hotmail.comSun, 07 Jun 2020 12:07:04 GMTSun, 07 Jun 2020 12:07:04 GMThttp://backend.userland.com/rssBlog RSS Generator Version 4.0.0.0THE ROAD BETWEEN CHIEDE AND NAMACUNDE http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/74/THE-ROAD-BETWEEN-CHIEDE-AND-NAMACUNDE.aspx
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<div dir="auto">Suddenly the stretch between Namacunde and Chiede became very dangerous to travel, let alone for those who lived there. The twenty-four kilometers roads became known as the road of death and only few dared to venture there in the years from 1978.</div>
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<div dir="auto">My last trip through that road was in 1978 with my mother and her sister my favourite aunt, Helena or maybe I was her favourite nephew. </div>
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<div dir="auto">I was very sick and they had to take me to Namacunde hospital. Life in Southern Angola was becoming extremely difficult and the only vehicles reaching place like Chiede were the military trucks that brought supplies of the basic commodities. The vehicle was often escorted by FAPLA. </div>
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<div dir="auto">We had to climb in those truck and travel for what seemed an eternity. The road was bad, part of it washed away by the rain and part of it was perceived to be a minefield. We huddled together as my mother prayed for our safety throughout the dreadful journey. I was shivering due to the high fever but I could have been scared for I have heard of horror stories from those who have survived that road.</div>
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<div dir="auto">There were soldiers, ODEPE(civilian defence, I'll equipped and hardly trained but at least they had guns) and civilians everyone praying in their own way. I lied there with a fever of 120 degrees I could feel the fear and then one of the tire burst, the sound was so loud like explosion that everyone start crawling in the floor of the truck. </div>
<div dir="auto">Everyone thought that we were ambushed, fortunately the driver brought the vehicle to a standstill. For few seconds we laid still with our heart pounding in our hands.</div>
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<div dir="auto">Finally someone shouted, "é pneu!" It's a tyre!</div>
<div dir="auto">Shoewww! Everyone let out a sigh of relief.</div>
<div dir="auto">We had to climb off the vehicle and sat a distance away in the shade while the soldiers fixed the tyre. </div>
<div dir="auto">We also had to be very quiet to listen to any strange sounds, especially the sound of planes and helicopters.</div>
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<div dir="auto">You see the threats in this road between Chiede and Namacunde came in three folds:</div>
<div dir="auto">1. Ambush</div>
<div dir="auto">2. Air strike </div>
<div dir="auto">3. Land mine... All of them very lethal or take your choice!</div>
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<div dir="auto">After fixing the tyre we climbed back and drove to our destination.We stayed for a week at Namacunde and when I was better we went back. Travelling was only as last resort and if possible by foot. </div>
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<div dir="auto">Because of these threats and constant harassment from the South Africans Security forces as well as the threat from Chitumba a decision was made to move my grandfather and grandmother from Ohongo to Chiede where we could be closer to each other.</div>
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<div dir="auto">Schooling was also another challenge, it was being disrupted every second day. A sound of a airplane was enough to send everyone running or nervous breakdown. What was happening between Chiede and Namacunde was either deliberately aimed to isolate the town and render it vulnerable or just creating chaos to the community. There were also theft of cattle and kidnapping of herdsman. People disappeared without trace, especially young men.</div>
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<div dir="auto">One day when we were at school two fighter plane came. Everyone started running tripping over each other, crying but the situation got worse when they started shooting. We were running north-East out of the town in the bushes. The plane's target was the building at the end of the town towards Namacunde. They shot the building into pieces and then left.</div>
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<div dir="auto">That afternoon mothers went about the places looking for their children. School was suspended indefinitely. </div>
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<div dir="auto">After the independence my father's role was to coordinate logistics and education. He played a vital role in sending the first group of students to Luanda and Cuba and some like my elder sister was to end up in the small island near Miami. </div>
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<div dir="auto">My father's experience as a comerciants was to earn him the position to oversee the stocking-up of the, "Loja do povo" which replaced all form of trading or business. "loja do povo, loja unica..." and other names that came with that system of thinking.</div>
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<div dir="auto">With the school suspended at Chiede, there was a plan to move the senior student north where they could continue with their studies. My brother Leo was part of this group. My father and Capunda met occasionally to discuss and plan to move the group of children to places of learning. Capunda was a dynamic leader, the right Comesario-politico for that period. Capunda and my father were friends from way back before I was born and his mother was one of the first people to welcome me back at Chiede in 1995. </div>
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<div dir="auto">They eventually manage to get some learners to Namacunde for a short period but there was eminent threats, the possible attack in either town. </div>
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<div dir="auto">But Southern Angola was getting extremely dangerous. There were too many air strikes, villages were burn down, herdsman disappearing and others tortured and released to spread fear and panic. </div>
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<div dir="auto">One day two fighter planes came down at Ondjiva dropping bombs at the administrative building and hospital. Towns and villages were no longer safe and gathering should be avoided.</div>
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<div dir="auto">During the day people avoided grouping, they would work on their fields and herd their livestock. Anything that resembled military or can be associated with military should be destroyed. At some stage I bought a toy plastic AK at the loja do poo and had a khaki trouser with pockets that looked like army trouser. My grandma took the toy and smashed into small pieces and then took my trouser and burned it.</div>
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<div dir="auto"> At home we had one of the oldest weapon that came from Mandume ya Ndemufayo's war against the Portuguese domination and finally against the English in 1917. The weapon was a symbol and family heritage and pride of our family history. The "spingarda" that my grandfather used to defend "oshilongo" was finally burired in the field.</div>
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<div dir="auto">One early morning two helicopters flew from the border towards the East of Chiede. Not too close to town but also not too. They did not fly high, at the East of the town they started encircling a particular area. One helicopter went up and the other went down, for few minutes they repeated the excise. The two helicopters flew back towards the South following each other like two birds.</div>
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<div dir="auto">After few minutes everyone started coming from their hide out. Everyone was asking questions. </div>
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<div dir="auto">We were living in a war zone. From a child to the elderly woman have learned certain skills to stay alive. We were living to survive. Chiede had never had a strong military presence and it's geographical location has made it even vulnerable. The man who defended Chiede until that day was Eusebio, under his command was a team of fifteen men. Well disciplined and well trained platoon of FAPLA that reported to Comesario-politico Capunda who was by then at Namacunde and Ondjiva.</div>
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<div dir="auto">Twice FALA from Chitumba attacked Chiede, every time with more intensity than the the previous. Every time they were repelled by Eusebio's men. Eusebio too tried to destroy Chitumba once or twice but came back with their tails between their legs. </div>
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<div dir="auto">Chitumba was a military nightmare for the FAPLA in Cunene. Chitumba was later attacked by the South African Defence Forces. </div>
</div><br /><a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/74/THE-ROAD-BETWEEN-CHIEDE-AND-NAMACUNDE.aspx>More ...</a>dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/74/THE-ROAD-BETWEEN-CHIEDE-AND-NAMACUNDE.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/74/THE-ROAD-BETWEEN-CHIEDE-AND-NAMACUNDE.aspxMon, 30 Apr 2018 17:11:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=74IN SEARCH FOR A HOMEhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/72/IN-SEARCH-FOR-A-HOME.aspx
<p> The doctors have done a great job. Three times that I had to undergo surgery and was feeling legs moving again. Three times I had to fly to Grootfontein and back as Grootfontein offered better conditions to reconstruct my limps. The doctors had to remove part of skin and patch up the bullet wounds. At least I could now move my legs but the disfigurement was ugly and the scars were permanent. </p>
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<div>That beautiful athletic figure was permanently disfigured, but at least I was alive.</div>
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<div>As I started recuperating I also started becoming more and more aware of my surroundings, my new environment and the people. One day as I woke up I heard two men speaking in Portuguese, "Capunda is dead... pisou na mina." The man with the bandages who arrived a day before was telling the other men who were equally in bandage and in great pain. They were exchanging news of the war front</div>
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<div>Hearing of the death of Capunda send my body into a cold shiver, I almost dug deeper into the bed. Capunda, Miguel Angelo was a great friend of my father and our families have lived at Chiede for years before the war. Capunda's father has set up couple of shops that he inherited. During the first SADF invasion in 1975 Capunda abandoned his land rover near the school and took off on foot.</div>
<div>On the arrival of the SADF, they too tried to start the Landy and when they failed they set it alight</div>
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<div> After independence in 1975 he became political commissary for Namacunde and my father became the director of "loja unica" in the socialist system. My father and Capunda met occasionally and often travelled together.</div>
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<div>Capunda has shown an outstanding leadership during those years between 76 to 80(today one of the neighbourgood in Namacunde is named after him.</div>
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<div>The men breaking the news was Dudu, the lance corporal in 32 battalion, he was talking to his comrades. The news brought fear deep down as I thought of my father. Ever since arriving Oshakati, despite the physical pain I endured, the though of my family's safety was just as painfully. The unknown is painful and it breeds fear.For fifteen that was to be my companion.</div>
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<div>I stayed on my own most of the time, the hospital staff were friendly and the interaction with other patients cordial. </div>
<div>My next move was to start with physiotherapy and hopefully getting discharged. Suster Venter(that's how I recorded the name back in that time) was a tall blond woman who treated me like a son. As soon as a was out of the hospital pyjamas she brought me some some clothes and every morning and afternoons she would take me for physiotherapy. Because one of the bullet tore through my knee, taking off part of my kneecap my leg would curl and get very tight if not in motion. To straighten the leg would take few painful seconds. It was during one of this painful exercise that I met Jose Miranda the medic from Golf company. </div>
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<div>Being at Oshakati military hospital as a child must have raised many eyebrows, although I was not the youngest and curiosity took the best of many and when some of the patients discovered that I spoke Portuguese they immediately drew me to their camp. I was fluent in Oshiwambo and Portuguese and having done pretty well at school despite constant interruption I could read and write.</div>
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<div>Jose Miranda started his military career at the age of 14 back in1960s as part of the "movemento de libertaçao" in northern of Angola where he became a medic and eventually became a medic in one of the platoons in Golf company in 32 Battalion. He was also a patient at Oshakati, with bullet wounds in his leg. After seeing me doing physiotherapy he joined and took over from the nurse and since he too needed physiotherapy, it became mutual. Soon more people joined in and friendship was born.</div>
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<div>In 1974 Jose Miranda moved from the northern part of Angola to Novo Rodondo as part of strategic move of ELNA, here he met a woman who became his wife and had a boy but almost a year later with the outbreak of the war he ran South, leaving his wife and child taking only his brother-in-law who was about twelve.</div>
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<div>Somewhere along the way he became of the Bravo group's 76.</div>
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<div>We started playing cards, I learned to play seweka and with that support I walk quiet well despite a pronounced limp. One day as I was walking around I came into a tent that was turned into a ward. The light was dim and as I walked in silence descended upon the room like a school teacher walking into the class. All eyes were upon me.</div>
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<div>The disturbing silence told me that something was amiss. Walked in politely and took my seat upon my bed. The eyes following me.</div>
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<div>"Dino, you must not go back to Chiede," a voice amongst the men in the said, "you were luck to have survived. Next time you might not be so luck."</div>
<div>Beside I did not know if my family have survived. I did not know that these that hardly knew were contemplating about my fate. But if I was to discharged from the hospital were else could I go. At the age of none I made my first adult decision.</div>
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</div><br /><a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/72/IN-SEARCH-FOR-A-HOME.aspx>More ...</a>dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/72/IN-SEARCH-FOR-A-HOME.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/72/IN-SEARCH-FOR-A-HOME.aspxWed, 31 May 2017 19:50:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=72The Road to Botswanahttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/66/The-Road-to-Botswana.aspx
The road to Botswana look at the critical phase where members of the 32 Battalions, those who started the war in 1961 could no longer perform the fighting task, they were either dead, injured or too old to fight(COSSA RABO) but the institution needed men to fight so the school, Pica-pau had young blood. but when this failed the second option was to recruit in the surrounding area, across the river. And that is when Hotel company was created
dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/66/The-Road-to-Botswana.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/66/The-Road-to-Botswana.aspxFri, 13 May 2016 18:57:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=66The red crosshttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/60/The-red-cross.aspx
while doing a research for the "in search for home" I could not ignore this institution and how the managed to infiltrate this unit. Although their stay a Buffalo was short(After few hours they were expelled), they managed to make contact and link many families back in Angoladinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/60/The-red-cross.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/60/The-red-cross.aspxFri, 28 Aug 2015 20:13:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=60Fighting for the heart and soul of Chiedehttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/59/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede.aspx
This part of the extract from the search for homedinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/59/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/59/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede.aspxFri, 28 Aug 2015 20:02:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=59The Children of the warhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/55/The-Children-of-the-war.aspx
Many parents look at the sunset and hope that the quiet nights will bring news of their children. Over the years I have had people coming to ask if I had met so and so and with a heavy heart I will say no but deep down I hope so and so will come back to his village or at least the family will find I closure.
The children of the war is dedicated to those children who have crossed my path while searching for a home.<div class="category">Category: <a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/CatID/2/language/en-US/Default.aspx>Operations</a></div>dinoestevao@hotmail.comOperationshttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/55/The-Children-of-the-war.aspx#Comments1http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/55/The-Children-of-the-war.aspxThu, 13 Aug 2015 18:26:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=55Fighting for the heart and soul of Chiede: Returning to Chiede http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/54/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede-Returning-to-Chiede.aspx
December 1995. I arrived at O’shikango, the border of Angola and Namibia. To my disappointment I was not allowed to cross the border, to go beyond Santa clara.
I wanted to go to chiede, I have traveled all the way from South Africa, just to be told, “that’s it, son. You cannot go further north.” My father said with a voice of authority and the rest of the men that were part of the first meeting agreed with him.
Although I was happy to have met these men and to share some form of kinship, the years spend apart have robbed us of some vital connectivity. The sense of belonging “here” was so overwhelming but lacked the essentials, I was happy but also sad.
The war has robbed me of my family, of my childhood and stolen the beauty and innocence in me. Now I was trying to regain some of it, going beyond Santa clara was my way of regaining what I have lost, what was snatched from me that fateful morning in 1980.
For fifteen years I cherished, nourished the memories of the small town, the soccer field next to the school were we played before the war intensified. I also remember the trenches that were dug around the town giving it more of a warzone appearance. I remembered as people moved out of the countryside to build houses around the town, clustering and fend off intruders.
To go to back South Africa without reaching Chiede was returning without achieving my objective and was to continue nursing these old memories. To go forward was to face the harsh reality, to replace the romanticized childhood information that gave me the inner comfort.
For fifteen years I needed that and I nursed my discomfort, soothing away the pains with these memories. As I sat there listening to mumbling voices, men discussing issues that will determine if I should cross the border or go back to South Africa, men that are part of my inner circle. Men that are blood of my blood, yet I knew very little about them and the only reference to tie them to me were pieces of fading, disjoining memories from the childhood files that were being played from the old projector.
Things were happening fast.
One minute I was at Noordbrug, Potchestroom and the next I was at Oshikango, the Angola/Namibian border. I was under pressure to remember things, places and people to connect me to this part of the world.
Discussing the possibility of going beyond Santa clara into the Angolan territory with my father and the rest of the family was not receiving a sympathetic ears. Everyone seem to be happy that I have come this far but to go beyond was out of question, it seems that no one wanted to entertain my request, “it was too dangerous to go into Angolan territory”.
We were sitting at John Sapota’s house at Oshikango Santa clara. To them I have come this far, they saw me physically and I should not go beyond the border. “We are still in the middle of the war,” my father said, “you are safe this side. Many young man like you are being rounded up to join the army, the recruitment campaign is quiet aggressive in the rural side.”
I nodded politely and leaned back hiding my disappointed. “and if you are caught by some crazies carrying guns who are roaming around harassing the villagers and defenseless communities they will kill you because you look like a soldier,” the old man with a pipe finally said it.
Everyone at olupale nodded and there was a murmuring around me, “Okwa ita! Okwa ita.” (a soldier! A soldier!) I was actually disappointed that my own family, despite telling them that I was a kindergarten teacher from Potchefstroom they saw me as soldier. I was speechless, shocked! If that’s what they thought of me, now imagine a total stranger with no background information about me, I thought quietly as I nodded.
I sadly thought.
To tell the readers that five years prior to my visiting this place where we were sitting was a war zone and the wounds and scar of the war were still fresh, but towards the north to where I was heading, tales of sporadic gunfight erupting every few minutes here and there, told by traumatized survivors and distressed persons fleeing, searching for safety.
So this group of men around me were not misguided or misinformed when they tried to caution me, they were simply being realistic. They have lived and survived to tell the terror of the war.
I looked at the group of counsellor, the analysts who seem to agreed to each other’s wording. that my father was saying.
In fact few weeks before my arrival here a group of men stormed into Santa clara and sprayed the buildings with bullets. I read about this attack in the Citizen newspaper back in South Africa, little did I know that I was going to be there weeks later looking at the bullet holes and scars of many years of the war.
“Dino, it is good to seeing you, ntekulu wa nke,”an elderly man was saying as he puffed from his pipe, “the country is at war and is not the time for you to venture beyond Shikango.” Silence descended at oluphale. I sat there considering my options. I have come all the way just to turn back a short distance from my target. I have to navigate very carefully, negotiate with the men who spoke with authority, reality and experience that helped them to survive the war.
I too have my reasons to go over the border to Chiede!
Oshikango, 1995 was a quiet border town. Equipped with few trading establishments, but most of the trading was done under the big tree next to a tavern with gambling machine. I paid for a beer and inserted the changes into the gambling machine to kill the boredom. Suddenly the machine started spewing coins like rain on the iron sheet roof. I won about twelve coins, enough for another beer while I scouted around the place.
Oshikango was a town torn between war and peace. The socio-political implications should not be ignored and has always presented some complications to those who governed it. Oshikango or Santa clara is the same town and the natives have fought hard to keep it one, while the colonial authority tried by all means to divide it. This led to defiance and eventually armed resistance and its neighboring town across the border has become a haven for those escaping from the war. Santa clara has become, “o centro de acolhemento,” for those who have been displaced and those fleeing, forced out of the land by the war.
On arrival at Oshikango I studied the place and crossed to the other side of the border. The border post at Oshikango/Santa clara was built in the middle of the town making it difficult to manager in terms of people crossing. The local people hardly present documents when crossing. They went to and fro every day to attend family affairs. I too joined them and crossed with ease. Not having Angolan or Namibian documentation was a major concern on my side and travelling on South African passport required visa to enter into the Angolan territory. Having South African identity documents in this part of the world in this period of the history can also be interpreted as an enemy. I was moving in a very dangerous ground. And to not having spoken Kwanyama for more than fifteen years, the main language spoken at Oshikango/Santa clara was also a disadvantage to me. At twenty five years old I have spent many hours and good hours at the gym which resulted in my physique to look very sexy with more muscle that is not common in the rural and can attract unnecessary attention to those looking for trouble. my physique can be very difficult to hide when you try to blend in the country side. Then came the slight limp which becomes more obvious when walking faster. The physical scars of the war.
After listening to my father and other family members I drew up a list of pro and cons before making the final decision.
I was determine to go to Chiede and my reasons were difficult to explain. “I will go to Namacunde tomorrow morning. I may not go to Chiede but if I do then I will take the necessary precaution,” I said and tried to end the meeting. There was murmuring, each man protesting, trying to air his opinion.
At least going to Namacunde will give me another perspective and will feed some childhood memories. The last time I was at Namacunde was in 1979 and my memory of the place was foggy. The meeting adjourned. I took a walk with my father to the border again.
Studying the movement around the town, being observant without being too conspicuous. I kept reminding myself that was moving into the war zone and as such need to prepare for any eventuality. Fight or flee… stay alive.
My father bought some commodities and then we marched to the border. The excitement of walking along side my father was overwhelming. Here and there he would introduce me to some of his friends and acquaintances. Few meters from the immigration I bid him farewell. After all this years it was amazing looking at my old man. I walked back to tatekulu John’s house to plan for the last leg of my journey the next day.
The transport to Namacunde was an old military truck. I paid and jumped to the back where other passengers sit huddled. It rolled through potholes and pieces of asphalt until we arrived at the market. I jumped off and started looking around for any familiar point of reference. There was none.
Namacunde of my childhood was not the same place before me. What was before me was a mix of market and a refugee camp. With outbreak of the war again after the election of 1992 many people fleeing from different part of the country came to hide here. They build shacks next to each other to offer protection. They also setup a market that sold everything. The place was overpopulated.
I squeezed between people, making my way into the market. Moving from one stand to the next, looking at different commodities that were being displayed. I kept moving, randomly engaging in conversation just to make myself comfortable but also collecting as much information to help me decide if I should continue to Chiede or not. Walking in the market was to determine my safety and by talking to different people was basically trying to see how they reacted to my conversation. After fifteen years away I was an outsider, a stranger in my own backyard and to expose myself to that side of weakness was opening myself to a possible attack.
After walking around the market I started looking for the transport. Every time a vehicle came around I approached it to enquire if it is going to Chiede. After various attempts I realized that no vehicle goes to Chiede. That was sad, I told myself almost resigning to the idea of going… but soon I found a good source of information who told me that there was a vehicle that goes to Onthaku, near Ohongo. The vehicle with a Namibian registration was the only vehicle that goes that way, my source briefed me. He looked at me for few seconds then said, “tas a ir no Chiede tem la o que? Ou es da Unita?” he walked away. Leaving me standing there, puzzled and not sure if I should thank him.
It was only in the afternoon that I got hold of the Nissan 1400 with the Namibian number plate. After negotiations, money changed hands and the driver agreed to take me to my destination. The owner of the Nissan 1400 needed more passengers, we drove around, inviting every person who stood around and seemed not have a place to go. The many the merrier, I thought as the vehicle navigated between the potholes. Picking one passenger here and there until the man behind the steering wheel was satisfied then we were heading north east. My blood started pumping and the heart beating faster, louder…
Last time I travelled between Namacunde and Chiede must have been in 1978, my mother and her sister were taking to the hospital at Namacunde. we were travelling in a military vehicle and somewhere along the way the tyre burst and the vehicle swerved violently through the slippery road. Panic, chaos broke out sending everyone to crawl on the surface of the vehicle. Someone was screaming, “Imbuscada! Imbuscada!”(Ambush! Ambush!) until the driver brought the vehicle to a complete stop. The wheel was changed and resumed the journey and arriving safely at Namacunde and back.
This stretch of the road of about twenty five kilometers became increasingly dangerous from that time onward with ambushes, landmines and threats of air attack.
As the Nissan 1400 steered through the high and low of what was left of the road, I looked around. There were wreckage and debris of the what was left vehicles and crosses that indicate some form of grave along side the road did not escape my eyes. I was also looking around for any suspicious movement behind the bushes and trees. As we moved away from Namacunde I could feel the danger lurking behind everything. In my minds eyes I could see and hear the staccato gunshots erupting from all around. I started wondering if the door panels of the 1400 could stop bullets. My mind was running wild, playing different scenarios.
I thought of the conversations with the elders the day before and started regretting. I underestimated what they were telling me. The 1400 almost dived into a rivulet that the rain from few days has created, but the skillful driver negotiated, and brought the small vehicle to the other side of the water that has cut the disappearing road. I was impressed and wondered how often vehicles come to this part of the world. If they do, definitely do not drive in this road.
Few more driving minutes, that seems to have lasted a lifetime of some insects. The driver brought the vehicle to a stop, the excitement at the back of the vehicle as the people started collecting their belonging I thought something was amiss. “I thought the people were going to Chiede,”I mumbled more to myself but the driver heard me.
“we have arrived at Chiede,” the skillful driver said. “this is Chiede!”
I climbed off the vehicle and as I scanned around I could see rubbles and part of the walls of the once dwelling structures. I was indeed at Chiede but not the Chiede of my childhood, where we play futebol barefoot with the balls made of stockings and other materials that we could find. Even the school was destroyed. This was what was left after the nightmare.
I was staring at face of the war, the horror and the pain and the sorrow. What happen to my school friends, those that have survived. I stood there paralysed with shock. The driver bid me farewell and caution me to stay on the paths, “this is a minefield.” He sped off. Over the years I have faced challenges. I have overcome obstacle and have prepared myself for worst, endurance. Nothing prepared me for this.
<br /><a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/54/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede-Returning-to-Chiede.aspx>More ...</a><div class="category">Category: <a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/CatID/2/language/en-US/Default.aspx>Operations</a></div>dinoestevao@hotmail.comOperationshttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/54/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede-Returning-to-Chiede.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/54/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede-Returning-to-Chiede.aspxTue, 11 Aug 2015 20:23:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=54Fighting for the heart and soul of Chiedehttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/52/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede.aspx
The first few month in early 1976, the withdrawal of the South African Defence Force(SADF) which left UNITA running for the proverbial hills. Chiede became a very quiet town, almost abandoned except for the herdsmen who brought their cattle for water at the water pump.
Then slowly the system started functioning steadily, the communal administration, the school and the hospital followed by other infrastructures. MPLA knew how to mobilise and its propaganda mechanism was second to none. From an elderly man to a small child everyone fitted in the puzzle. There was ODEPE for the elderly and fragile man, OMA, JMPLA and pioneiro, the later was to be scratched of the operational plan as it violated the right of the child.
Chiede became a hub of activity and many people especially from the north east started moving, clustering on the south eastern side, between the water pump and the trenches dug around the old town parameters.
The new centralization soon became a disaster, a death trap.
From the north eastern side those who have survived the MPLA 1975/76 take over started regrouping and finally organizing a force to become a threat. Soon Chiede was caught between two forces, both equally lethal in their own ways and definitions.
In the south the SADF were trying to recover from their first international disaster or nightmare, and now were devising new comeback methodologies and tactics to restore democracy and freedom.
After all as the last god fearing democracy countries, the responsibility was on their laps to defend, if need be being aggressor will be justifiable.
Looking back at the eastern part of Chiede towards Chitumba UNITA was recovering remarkably well. Regrouping here and there, they started with uncoordinated sabotage and collecting more mahangu and “straying” cattle for their consumption and until Chitumba became a nightmare for the FAPLA’s neck. Eventually escalating into the a life threatening pain that was to grind the mechanism to a halt.
Chiede as the last town, geographically miss-positioned was at the receiving end and vulnerable. Even the Cuban internacionalistas refused to go to Chiede, so the town became more and more vulnerable.
As my father said once, “desperate times call for desperate measures…” yes, the situation was getting worse and the people of Chiede were at the end of their tether.
Despair was the order of the day, but the worse was to come. One old man who came to see my father, I overheard him saying, “this is the wickedest time that we are living… our cattle are being stolen and our villages burned down. We cannot work in our field.”
<br /><a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/52/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede.aspx>More ...</a><div class="category">Category: <a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/CatID/2/language/en-US/Default.aspx>Operations</a></div>dinoestevao@hotmail.comOperationshttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/52/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/52/Fighting-for-the-heart-and-soul-of-Chiede.aspxTue, 11 Aug 2015 20:17:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=52In Search for a Home: Omaunihttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/44/In-Search-for-a-Home-Omauni.aspx
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<div style="text-align: center; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt" align="center"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt">Omauni was my first stop from Oshakati military hospital. The Buffel, a military vehicle rolled out of the hospital yard, stopping briefly at the gate for a routine check by the guards, then opening the gate and the vehicle drove away. Leaving the comfort and safe haven that the hospital offer me during my stay. The drive was slow and each passenger kept to himself, praying and hoping that the vehicle did not drive over a landmine or came under attack.(<i>that was the state of being then</i>)</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt" align="center"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt"> Our arrival at Omauni brought a sigh of relief and breathing to normal. The buffel came to stop and everyone reached for their military gear and climbed off to parade or a quick gathering and administration. Being the only none military personnel I took my bag and stood aside, waiting for Tito Appolinario. He knew his way around the place, after the gathering we marched to a far end part to a tent where he was received in a warm comradely reception. Here I was issued with a sleeping bag and couple of boxes of ration packs(rat pack) that made me chewing sweets throughout the night. I was to understand later that this is the place near the Angolan border, used as a springboard to attacks Angola. Perhaps this is the closest that I have come to my home town. However for few days this was to become a home, the home that I was later to hear and read about atrocities and cruel tales not only to those across the border but also to its own. “<i>To re enforce and strengthen the myth and legends of a fierce warrior you have to slaughter, even your own</i></span></b><b><i><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt">. To be ruthless is to command and to be merciless, cruel</span></i></b><b><i><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt"> will make you stronger and invincible…”</span></i></b><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt"> when this statement is translated literally as history of the men and wars has showed us, the result is execution of man by their own, especially for those soldiering in the grey area.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt" align="center"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt">I was the only child and did not come across any child during my stay at Omauni. Most of the time I kept to myself and seems that every second soldier that I met gave me a pair of dark blue shorts and light blue t/shirt which was the school uniform in Angola that they brought from that part of the world. Although the gesture was most welcome, <i>ek was al gat met die klere</i></span></b><b><i><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt">.</span></i></b><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt"> Soldiers come and soldiers went on regularly. Those that came was to resupply and break. (Come to think of it, now. the all set up looks like a scene from the series of ‘sending Vietnam’ with the red sand and without American accent.) </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt" align="center"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt"> After few days at Omauni we were told to prepare that our transport will arrive any time. I rolled the sleeping bag and handed back to the owner and thanked everyone for letting me stay with them. The soldiers also wished me a save journey and hope to meet again when they returned to Buffalo.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt" align="center"><b><span style="font-size: 16pt">The transport arrived in a form of helicopter, it hardly landed on sand ground like hill when the passengers started jumping out like bats. Soon the passengers that were to board started running towards the helicopter. I heard Tito Apolinario shouting over the sound of the <i>Omadakadaka</i>, “corre, Dino!” as everyone charged towards the helicopter. I struggled to keep up and soon I was few meters behind, until I could only see shadows like silhouette moving through the dust into monster with the rotors like blades hovering over their heads. Almost decapitating them, but nonetheless I was behind. As I came nearer the wind and sand generated by the revolving rotors started pushing me backward until I could no longer move forward and the giant blade missed my head again and again. I ran back to a safer distance and turn to the helicopter. I stared hard through the dust and then charged again towards the target but I was met with the same resistance, frustrated and in tears I with drew to a safer distance again. This time I could see everyone in the helicopter looking at me and the helicopter like a monster with tentacles revolving faster every time creating a strong wind like cyclone that was chancing me away. That’s it, I told myself. The only two persons that I knew and were given instruction to ensure that I arrive safely to my new home were now on the other side, inside the belly of the helicopter… between us was the hovering rotors that viciously threaten to decapitate me should I attempt to follow them. It was challenging me, this time I sized up the beast. Like a young bull, I charged with all the strength that I could muster, harder and desperate, crying I ran and ran and ran harder. But halfway I felt a strong hand lifting me and advanced in a rapidity of those who board helicopters for breakfast and threw me into the belly of the helicopter. <i>I got your back, son…</i> as the soldier who came to my rescue ran back to join his comrades. Immediately, I took up my seat and dusted off the tears and sand from my face, putting up a brave face while cursing that they have not make this “children friendly”. The helicopter took off and so my journey in search for a home continues. Next stop… Grootfontein! </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt" align="center"> </div>
<div style="text-align: center; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt" align="center"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt">Grootfontein was a contrast to Oumani. Here there helicopter landed and the engine died, bringing its rotors like decapitating blades to a complete stop, before we could disembark on a dark grey asphalt. I have been at Grootfontein before, three times but every time I was in a stretcher. All three surgeries to restore my legs and mobility have been done at Grootfontein. Everytime driving in ambulance through the rough road between Oshakiti and Ondangwa, then flying from Ondangwa to Grootfontein and back after each surgery. But now i planted my two feet on the soil of Oshivanda (Grootfontein) but did not have a cooking clue where the hospital was.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt" align="center"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt">My two companions and I were driven to a building where we were to wait for the next transport. Tito Apolinario and I were housed in a bungalow neatly layout with beds, later an elderly soldier came and led us into a neat dining hall and the meal was served in most civil and respectful course. The other men that joined us for diner were of advanced age and carried themselves in courteous and orderly as they acknowledged each other around the table. <i>I was to learn much later, that we were dined by senior non commissioned officers and such a reception is reserved to few. The dining hall was reserved for sergeant majors and staff sergeants. Tito Apolinario was a mere lance corporal and my other companion was whisked away on our arrival, to the officer’s bungalow because he was a lieutenant. </i>After diner we were entertained with refreshment and retired to our beds.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt" align="center"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 16pt">My journey in search for a home continues...</span></b></div>
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<p><span id="1386274972100S" style="display: none"> <span id="1386275000843E" style="display: none"> </span></span></p><br /><a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/44/In-Search-for-a-Home-Omauni.aspx>More ...</a>dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/44/In-Search-for-a-Home-Omauni.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/44/In-Search-for-a-Home-Omauni.aspxThu, 05 Dec 2013 20:19:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=44In search for a home: proof of lifehttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/43/In-search-for-a-home-proof-of-life.aspx
The pain of not knowing if my family survived the massacre at Chiede was hard to bear, when I left chiede, under the tree near the water pump(seen in the photo) I took off my shoes that were shoaked in my blood… but what I did not know and was only to find out fifteen years later was few meters where I fell bleeding, my brother Leo, my hero let out his final breath. In the proof life, which is central to my writing, “In search for a home.” I tried to pen down the struggle to reach my parents and theirs to track me through Namibian towns, maybe not physically but through letters to tell them that I was alive.My first letter that i wrote in 1982 reached them and gave them hope that i was alive.But where was I? I was fortunate that in December 1995 I stood tall at Oshikango, and anxiously waited for my father to take me home. I was looking forward to be home for Christmas.dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/43/In-search-for-a-home-proof-of-life.aspx#Comments1http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/43/In-search-for-a-home-proof-of-life.aspxThu, 14 Nov 2013 08:29:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=43The Battle of Mongua: From Ondjiva to Preira d’eçahttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/42/The-Battle-of-Mongua-From-Ondjiva-to-Preira-d-eca.aspx
<p><img width="236" height="164" alt="" src="/Portals/5/Blogs/Mandume, Oihole II.JPG" /><br />
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To understand the story of the Angolan border war or the “Bush war” as is widely referred in the some military circle. I want to take you back, about fifty year prior to the outbreak of that war in 1966, the date that is widely accepted as the beginning of the border war. In 1911 King Nande, the aging king of the kingdom of Uukwanyama died and his successor, the new king was his 17 years old nephew, Mandume ya Ndemufayo.<br />
Born in 1894, Mandume ya Ndemufayo was groomed by his maternal parent and academically schooled by a German missionary, pastor Adolf Wulfhorst. At the age of 17, he became the succession to the throne of the Kingdom of Uukwanyama. Although Mandume was not the direct heir to the throne, his ascension brought relief and stability in the kingdom. He was young, strong and demanded respect and discipline, than his uncle Nande who was old, weak and was loosing control within his ranks and delegated the power of arbitration to the chiefs and nobles who in turn became the law… as the new king, Mandume ya Ndemufayo started restoring the order, control and centralizing the power and decision within the kingdom. This was a tense period, with severe draught, conflict and high turbulence as the world drawn into the theater of the world war one.<br />
The kingdom of Uukwanyama, one of the largest tribe, powerful and well organized within the tribes of Owambo. Stretching from the southern of Angola to the northern part of Namibia, until then enjoying enormous fertile land for agriculture, grazing and hunting.<br />
Mandume ya Ndemufayo was the eighth king to have lived in Ondjiva as the royal capital of the kingdom of Uukwanyama. And by 1900, this part of the world felt very little impact of the Portuguese in the north or the German in the south. With the exception of the missionaries and the(comerciantes) traders, this region had very little interaction with either colonial powers. Portugal, until then had very little interest in this part of the world, faraway from the sea and often referred as the end of the world(a terra no fim do mundo) and offered very little in economy or otherwise… but soon with more need to have a grasp in the African continent, “scramble for Africa”. The colonial power to the soon realized that situation in south of Angola needed hands on. Mandume ya Ndemufayo inherited a thorn in his throne, the partition of the kingdom of Uukwanyama between the Portuguese to the north and German in the south. This new border suddenly brought confusion and bewilderment throughout the region. Suddenly, there was restriction on movements. After a number of incidents of violation of the border were reported to the colonial authorities. Mandume was called and requested for him and his subjects to abide to the international laws of the borders as set out in the Berlin treaty of 1888. This infuriated the King, who had to get travelling permission from either the Portuguese or Germany authority to travel within his kingdom. In retaliation he expelled the Portuguese missionaries and traders from Ondjiva. The border line between Angola and Namibia(South west Africa its colonial name) was drawn without the consideration of the natives, and as such should no be recognized, Mandume instructed his subjects from both side. Mandume ya Ndemufayo became defiant and started to build up a better army, and started trading cattle for guns. As spoil of the war, Mandume expelled the Portuguese “comerciantes,” from Ondjiva. Mandume ya Ndemufayo was young but determine to defend and die defending the kingdom. The border dispute drew in another Owambo tribe, the kingdom of Ombadja. King Shihetekela, the king of Ovambdja or Cuamati was an ally and confidante of Mandume ya Ndemufayo, his kingdom is situated north of the Owambo and south of the Cunene river.<br />
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Oshana ya Onfilo(the plain of death)<br />
The Portuguese immediate response to the expulsion of the missionaries and traders from Ondjiva was to send an army to restore “order,” in the south of Cunene river. The first Portuguese military intervention were met at the kingdom of Ombadja where fierce battle was fought. The Portuguese were defeated and fled leaving the weapons and gears. King Shihetekela collected the weapon and equipped his army and send some to Mandume. However this victory was short lived, the Portuguese army returned, this time not only better equipped and large number but led by an experienced senior officer who has fought and won war in another part of Africa. Mozambique. And the man was general Preira d’eça.<br />
In 1914, the Union Defense Force(UDF) invaded and forced the Germans to surrender in Germany in South West Africa(GSWA) as part of the World War I campaign to defeat and surrender the Germans.<br />
The Union Defense Force(UDF) drawing its soldiers from the Rhodesian Regiment and the South Africans moved in territory north of the Orange river, with an army better equipped and superior training and experience acquired from the Boer war. The initial approach of the UDF was to observe without interfering in the affairs in the north of GSWA and south Angola. Also the new authority in Windhoek identified Mandume ya Ndemufayo as a formidable leader who should be an ally then foe, however this approached worried the Portuguese who were struggling to gain control in the south of Cunene river and feared that Mandume would find a supplier of weapons from the new authority in Windhoek. After a defeat at Ombadja. Portugal drew in one of the most experienced, respected military hero and war general in the Portuguese defense force.<br />
General Preira d’eça rose through the military ranks to become a war hero, having successfully quelled the Shangaan uprising and apprehended king Ngungunyane in the southern Mozambique, General Preira d’eça became a force to reckon in the military and political circle within Portugal and its colonies(referred as the overseas provinces).<br />
Mandume ya Ndemufayo, the eighth monarch in the kingdom of Uukwanyama to have been a resident in the royal house at Ondjiva was faced a dilemma of waking up every morning and face the flag of Portuguese and look at Ondjiva as the town of Preira d’eça. As a result Mandume moved out and set his royal house at Oihole, east of Namacunde.<br />
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<br />
The battle of Mongua<br />
Although the battle of Mongua was only one of the few battles fought between the Portuguese and the Owambo people in this period and it only lasted three days, it is none the less a significant encounter that was to be told from one generation to the next. The documented history of this encounter is very limited and vague in many ways and the oral tradition from which is my point of departure and from where I based the record of this writing is influenced by zeal, time and myths. So I am guided by the caution rule.<br />
In 1915, the first battle(a batalha do Mongua) that lasted few days between the Portuguese and Mandume’s army took place in the north of Ondjiva, although trying to hold back the Portuguese army from Ondjiva, his headquarter. The first meetings to between the UDF and the Portuguese Defence Force was held at Namacunde, although there slight mistrust from the Portuguese who suspected Mandume was being armed by the authority in Namibia The South Africans forces were moving through the northern Namibia towards the border of Angola When told to hand himself to the authority, that’s what he said, “se os engles me procuram eu estou aqui, eles pode vir e mondar-me um ardil. Nao farei o primeiro disparo, mas eu nao sou um cabrito nas mulolas, sou um homen e lutarei ate gastar a minha ultima bala. O meu curacao diz-me que nao fiz nada errado.”<br />
At the age of 23 Mandume died while fighting while fighting the UDF and Portuguese forces… he was defeated and decapitated and his head was taken South West Africa(Namibia)where it was displayed throughout every town as the conquerors rode back south in a traditional barbaric that mankind has displayed since the cave days towards his enemy. Although it is not known where his head is or buried, his body was buried at Oihole about ten kilometers south east of Namacunde.<br />
Mandume ya Ndemufayo’s day is commemorated in Angola and Namibia every years in the month of February, with the university of Mandume ya Ndemufayo in Lubango and Ondjiva.<br />
Mandume’s successor was only anointed after Namibia gained its independence, almost seventy years after his death.<br />
</p><br /><a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/42/The-Battle-of-Mongua-From-Ondjiva-to-Preira-d-eca.aspx>More ...</a>dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/42/The-Battle-of-Mongua-From-Ondjiva-to-Preira-d-eca.aspx#Comments7http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/42/The-Battle-of-Mongua-From-Ondjiva-to-Preira-d-eca.aspxWed, 02 Oct 2013 20:43:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=42In search for a home: Arriving at Buffalohttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/41/In-search-for-a-home-Arriving-at-Buffalo.aspx
<p align="justify">I arrived in the west Caprivi in the late windy August afternoon of 1980, the place that was to become my home for the next nine years was built in three geographical areas with natural boundaries. At one side was the crocodile infested water of the Kavango river and the other side was the dense forest with some of the most dangerous animals. Because we came from Katima mulilo instead of the usually route from sector 20 in Rundu... all the arrivals and departures to Buffalo have to go through sector 20 at Rundu where a thorough inspection and administration have to be completed but for unknown reasons to me we could not secure seats in the military plane from Grootfontein to Rundu, so we boarded the next best flight. Grootfontein to Katima mulilo and then by road to Buffalo, west Caprivi. As I mentioned earlier that lance corporal Tito Apolinario was responsible for my safe arrival to my adopted parents, must also mentioned here that one lieutenant whom I failed to record due to the language or age or both, he was responsible for our safe passage or transportation. The first vehicle that we boarded only took us near Cuando river but Tito Apolinario and I were not allowed to go in, so we have to stay on the side of the road while the lieutenant went in to request for further transport to our destination. After a long wait under the tree, our companion returned with the transport and off we went.</p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">We arrived late afternoon, tired but anxious to see my new home... for days on the road I day dreamed of my future and what I was to find and was looking forward to arriving. The first sign of arrival was at the gate, after a slight hesitation the guards opened the gate and the vehicle crawled in Buffalo but what I did not know was that there was one more mode of transport that we needed to use before my arrival.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" style="width: 265px; height: 196px" src="/Portals/5/Blogs/Dino e familia.jpg" /></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><b><font size="4"><font size="4"><b><font size="4"> </font></b></font></font></b></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">The transport brought came to halt at the front of green bungalows with the similar structure and size. Our companion, the lieutenant climbed off the vehicle and spoke to Tito Apolinario and wished me well. Climbed back into the vehicle and sped off. I marched after Tito Apolinario to Alpha company where he was attached and have to hand his gears. Here we met some of his colleagues and after much of excitements of greeting we walked to the river. Alpha company had a beautiful view and few paces to the kavango river. Without any protocol and ceremony we splashed into the water... the waters of the river of the man eaters, crocodiles. After bathing we prepared for the final leg to our destination, this time the mode of transport was a bicycle. This was a common mode of transport for the soldiers to move from the residential area(Kimbo) to the companies(base). We cycled for about seven kilometres through a stretch of the area, the home of elephants and buffalos to Kimbo my new home. Although my adopted family have been anxiously waiting for me, the exact day or time of our arrival was not known. Since we arrived when it was getting dark I had to spend the night at Tito Apolinario’s house meeting his family and neighbour. In the small community, news travelled faster, very fast that my version of the story or who I was hardly mattered and my arrival did the rounds. " the arrival of Tito Apolinario with a young boy shot at both legs by helicopter created wild emotions, a sensational story and commotions that is reserved for the hunchback of Notre-Dame."</p>
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<p style="text-align: justify;"> </p><br /><a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/41/In-search-for-a-home-Arriving-at-Buffalo.aspx>More ...</a>dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/41/In-search-for-a-home-Arriving-at-Buffalo.aspx#Comments0http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/41/In-search-for-a-home-Arriving-at-Buffalo.aspxThu, 06 Jun 2013 13:58:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=41The outbreak for the border war http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/40/The-outbreak-for-the-border-war.aspx
as I stood next to my father looking at the biggest military build up rolling past us into the beautiful town of Chiede, i did not know the extend and the damage but I felt the earth shaking beneath my feet. Was I scared? Hell, no!dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/40/The-outbreak-for-the-border-war.aspx#Comments1http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/40/The-outbreak-for-the-border-war.aspxFri, 24 May 2013 10:38:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=40My journey through the border war: In Search for a homehttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/36/My-journey-through-the-border-war-In-Search-for-a-home.aspx
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<div style="text-align: center; margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt" align="center"><b><font size="5"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 14pt"><font color="#4f81bd">My journey through the border war: In Search for a home</font></span></font></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center; margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt" align="center"><b><font size="5"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-size: 18pt"><font color="#4f81bd">Oshakati </font></span></font></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify; margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;"><b><font size="5"><font size="4"><font color="#4f81bd">One day as I limped around the hospital, I stopped at the door of the tent that was also a ward. I heard somebody calling me, when I went in I saw a group of men sitting around on the beds. They were also patient like me, the silence and the expression on their faces made me think that something was amiss. They offered me a seat, “Dino, you must not go back to Namacunde.” One of the man said, “you were lucky to have survived… next time you might not be so lucky.” This were men that I did not know from a bar of soap but the way they addressed their concern, even my ten years old could not disagree. Beside I did not know if my parent survived the massacre at Chiede. After a long debate between these men, different scenarios and possibilities were put before me, but there was of small details could not be overlooked. I was a ten years old with physical disability in a country unknown and no family or clue how to survive. The only persons that I knew here were the medics and suster venter who was a kind, caring woman. In her I found a motherly comfort, she nursed my legs and we would sat outside teaching me Afrikaans. But the idea of staying with her was overruled for reasons beyond my understanding. “Dino, you must come with us.” said one of the man in Portuguese. “at Buffalo you will be able to go to school and there are many children at your age. You will have many friends.” Soon this group of men were divided into two, the Oshiwambos of which Kwanyama tribe is part off and my own tribe and the 32 battalion who identified with me by the virtue of being Angolan and spoke portuguese. The first group’s concern was what time of treatment was I going to encounter there. What if I became, “ophika.” And the latter insisted that I was well off at Buffalo.</font></font></font></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify; margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;"><b><font size="5"><font size="4"><font color="#4f81bd">Whatever the circumstances was, the time will soon come when I must be released from the hospital. “we need to find a home for this boy.” The group of strangers that I do not know from Adams cried. The matter was brought before the hospital superintendent.</font></font></font></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify; margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;"><b><font size="5"><font size="4"><font color="#4f81bd">The time for me to leave the hospital came one afternoon, I packed all that I had in a paper bag. Amongst my possession was a bible in Oshikwanyama. Most of other patients and medical staff came to bit me farewell. (A buffel, a military vehicle crawled into the hospital yard and came to a stop. Here was my ride, one man that was tasked to travel with me was lance corporal Tito Apolinario and one lieutenant that I do not know his name but he came to see me one evening in Buffalo to enquire on my well being after a year or so.) We climbed into the vehicle and he assisted me with the seatbelt, but before sitting I took glimpse of the sister waving goodbye, standing at the steps of the hospital. The vehicle crawled out of the hospital and what was beyond was the road with many twists and turns… each more sharp and slippery. So the search for a home continues. </font></font></font></b></div><br /><a href=http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/36/My-journey-through-the-border-war-In-Search-for-a-home.aspx>More ...</a>dinoestevao@hotmail.comhttp://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/36/My-journey-through-the-border-war-In-Search-for-a-home.aspx#Comments2http://blogs.warinangola.com/Home/tabid/167/EntryId/36/My-journey-through-the-border-war-In-Search-for-a-home.aspxFri, 10 May 2013 12:53:00 GMThttp://blogs.warinangola.comDesktopModules/BlogTrackback.aspx?id=36